Guilty Until Proven Innocent
by confusedsarcasm
Summary: Huddy/Chameron/Luddy. Mystery/suspense/drama. the aftermath of the Tyrant ep. House has finally made a move, but can't remember it. The police are here to investigate. Everyone is on edge. but where is cuddy? please R


Summary: This deals with the aftermath of Dibala's death/murder. The effects radiate like a relentless ocean current. Waves push Cuddy asunder, drift Cameron and Chase to opposite shores, cause Foreman and Wilson to stuggle their way to the surface as they search for rescue; all the while House is being drowned by inconsistencies, holes in his memory, and the feeling that water is rushing into his brain just as it had before.

Rating: T for violence, language, and PG-13 sexuality

Genre: Suspense, Drama, Mystery

Pairings: House/Cuddy, Lucas/Cuddy, Cameron/Chase, House/Wilson(friendship), Foreman/House (anti-friendship?)

A/N: I'm not the fastest updater, but stick with me. I'm a busy person, but reviews always speed things up. I write for fun, and I write to improve, so let me know how I'm doing.

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of House, M.D. but this is a good thing since David Shore and Co. are brilliant!

XXXXX

House awoke as if from a coma, the light filtering in from his window telling him already that he was late for his second day back at work; his head throbbing of a massive hangover, combining with the natural light to form a chemical reaction which blurred his vision and caused him to stumble as he got up from his bed...

Couch. His feet hit the floor sooner than expected, exacerbating his dizziness all the more. What the hell had he taken last night?

As he dragged himself into the bathroom from the couch he had apparantly passed out in, not capable enough to reach his bedroom under the influence and imparement of whatever had imobilized his senses the previous night and still lingered even now, House held onto the walls for assistance. He noted thankfully that his leg was only a four on the pain scale ranging from an impossibly euphoric one to the hell on earth of a ten.

After zipping himself back up into the jeans he had worn yesterday he began to wash his hands, an act so routine his mind began to wander, no longer curious about yesterday's events; only thinking about what he would do at work today--with no valid medical license. The cooking venture had gone well. Too well as a matter of fact for not only was he good enough to start his own restaurant, he exhausted this new obsession untill he realized it produced nowhere near the effect his passion for diagnostics did. So back to Princeton he went, as if he had never uttered the words, 'I quit.' Minus the constant pain and vicodin, the case had been...a case. It had been a mystery nevermind the outcome. The African dictator had died. It hadn't been on his watch, or else he was sure his pain would have lept up from a four to at least a six point five. Like taking a drug (vicodin anyone?), the mystery had lifted him high, and he could incorporate his opinion at any time, playing intellectual tennis with other knowledgeable, non-institutionalized people whenever he pleased. He was not bound to any consequences, not allowed--not forced, to see the patient face to face. No comittment left him free of any side-effects, allowing him to get as high as he wanted whenever he wanted, and never needing to crash with everyone else when the case settled down. He could definately get used to this. Life was good...

Too good for him to find any reason to get drunk; certainly nothing to cause him to get high. Ignoring this inconsistencey, House reservedly rejoiced in a painfree and careless life. Bring on back to work, day two.

House lifted his drowsy head and met his reflection. This is when the world stopped spinning.

House starred glassy eyed and mouth unconciously agape at the lipstick smeared over the corner of his lip.

Deja Vu was never strong enough to punch him in the stomach and come back out holding his intestines. A rough, trembling hand came up to hover above the faded shade of pinkish red and he wiped at in in the exact manner as before when he had hallucinated it, only this time, a smile did not follow. How could it, for before his heart had lept to the skies; now it had deflated.

The makeup did not vanish and House immediately ran water over his hands--both of them, and splashed his entire face, placing extra emphasis upon the inner part of his cheek as he scrubbed away at the calling card he now associated with his own insanity. He looked up. And just as the world had seemed to pause, it was again normal. The makeup was gone...

XXXXX

House entered the diagnostics conference room as per usual, hoping to maintain some sense of normalcy and praying to himself that this morning meant nothing. Normal was a far cry from the air which circulated in the room, however. House sat at the head of the table--Foreman was currently standing near the whiteboard and noticed this action, and associated nonverbal show of dominance which was implied in it. House challenged Foreman without even speaking in this way, and Foreman retaliated by not acknowledging him.

House's nerves shook inside of him at Foreman's face--solemn and distressed. His eyes darted to Chase's next, who's eyes were downcast, face blank but body tense and held together with a heavy cement of defeat. Cameron seemed the most normal, as normal could be considered. She radiated the same concern she would over the death of a patient, upset coming only from her own failures, though. For once it seemed she was perplexed by a mystery or had actually in his absence developed a healthy relationship with death.

As if a play button on a remote control had been pressed, Foreman began reviewing a patient's file aloud to the room. The differential had begun right in front of him, but he felt as if he were watching from a distance, in shades of grey.

Their jackets were grey, the floor was grey, the sky outside was grey...their eyes, were grey. Maybe they were seeing grey too.

XXXXX

The team had dispersed at Foreman's command; House had imputed very little, only entering the conversation for some interesting back and forth just to be difficult. Nothing would stop him when he had missed these interactions so much--not only from his "medical" leave; he had missed _this_. Three years of it. His life had fallen to pieces more than once...it couldn't happen again.

Or could it? What happened when the referee called the third strike?

House pushed all thoughts aside, not needing another reason to feel his throat close up from unthinkable thoughts of a broken team or a broken fantasy relationship.

Using his newly aquired skills, House began his way toward what Nolan labeled his "constant".

Wilson didn't have to look up when House entered his office, but did anyway out of common courtesy. Nice to see he still had some. So far Nolan seemed to know what he was talking about.

They shared a silence as Wilson watched House's brain and vocal chords battle each other, the diagnostician's mouth opening and closing while he formulated what to say.

Wilson's head tilted ever so slightly, knowing that if House were having trouble deciding what to say, then he was having trouble. He remanined patient.

"I..." House wasn't looking directly at Wilson, his eyes somewhere on the carpet, still figuring out his words. "...might..." _be relapsing back into hallucinatory insanity, he finished in his mind_, but he snapped out of it as soon as his eyes made contact with Wilson's. "What did I do last night?"

Wilson's posture perked up, his eyes opening from the narrowed state. "Oh right, how did it go?" he asked curiously.

House's face momentarily flashed of confusion. "How did what go?" he asked.

Wilson joined the ping-pong game of exchanging perplexed expressions. "You ... and Cuddy." He stretched the names out, as if waiting for House to finish his sentence.

If this were a game of charades, Wilson would be drawing pictures. Was House serious here? Wilson quoted, "I don't run from things anymore. I opened up in Mayfield, made friends with people I wouldn't have looked at twice if I passed the on the street... I feel like

_"...like I can do anything I want and actually deal with the consequences." House explained the highlights of his stay at Mayfield with Wilson over a dinner, heavy with garlic now that the veteran in the apartment downstairs was pain free thanks to House. _

_Wilson scooped the forkfull of seasoned pasta into his mouth and chewed on it while he also digested what House had been telling him for the past ten minutes or so. House was a transformed man from what he could dechipher from his actions back so far, and now he was actually being honest with him. "That's great, House," he affirmed. With as much that had happened to House in his past, it was ironic how little was to be said of his improvement. Health was always less complicated than a delusional and destructive lifestyle. House continued to stare at the televsion, not saying anymore, understanding that Wilson had given him in those small words his approval. Life couldn't be better._

_"OHH!" Both men cracked up in laughter as a lizard used its lightning quick toungue to dart out around a helplessly unsuspecting smaller animal on the televison program. This could have been a re-run, but then again, they've watched countless episodes on animal planet._

_"What are your plans now?" Wilson asked, initiating the restart of the conversation. _

_House shrugged. He hadn't thought so far ahead. Sure, he had a new lease on life, but if he didn't actually DO anything different, than life in its entirety would be no different. "I'm living three years ago," House commented. "Same team, same job, same life..."_

_Wilson detatched his eyes from the televsion when House didn't continue. Was this a good thing, or a bad thing? "Only you have less pain," he added positively, "no drug induced side effects." Wilson put his finished plate on the coffee table next to his feet. "This isn't three years ago, House." Wilson became serious. "This is five years ago." ...before the infarction... it didn't need to be spoken aloud to be understood. "The only difference between right now and then is Stacy."_

_House set his plate atop Wilson's. This was true. The only difference was his relationship with Stacy. And without the blinding pain inbetween then and now, he saw his life for what it was. He was happy now; he was happy then...but something was still missing--something that made him not feel empty, just incomplete. His life was just as good back then, but he remembered sharing a heart with a man who had once had dreams and plans for his future. Where had that man gone? "I don't want Stacy," House admitted. I didn't hallucinate Stacy, he thought. House had told Wilson already of his hallucination. The life he thought he had been experiencing. Of course he already knew this because he had told him when he thought it was real. What he hadn't yet told him... "I asked Cuddy to move in with me."_

_Wilson's head snapped to the side. "What?" Wilson's voice rose in pitch. "When? What did she say?"_

_House inhaled and exhaled a large breath and leaned further into the cushions of the couch. "Before Mayfield." Wilson's excitement visibly diminished. He understood. But then his lip twiched in the effort to supress a smile as he spoke._

_"You want Cuddy."_

_House clarified. "I want... _

"I want to finish what I started." Wilson ended his memory jogging quote and watched as recognition flooded House's senses. "So did you go talk to her like you said you would? You didn't come home last night, so I assumed..." he trailed off and let a smirk grace his lips that would have the same effect as a high-five, but wiped it from his face.

House didn't answer, instead he turned and exited his friend's office.

Wilson raised a speculative brow before going back to his work. Even now, he couldn't read that man. He had been so open the night before, and now he was either closing himself off or just being House, getting what he needed to know, then leaving without letting anyone else in on what he was thinking. Oh well, he decided. Cuddy was an open book, if something had happened, _finally_, between the two of them, he would be able to read it all over her.

XXXXX

House was walking toward Cuddy's office still unsure of the correctness of his decision to go there in the first place. But he still needed to know what happened last night. The lipstick on his face this morning would be explained by a night with Cuddy, a much better explanation than the world having been rewinded and his hallucinations starting all over again. But why couldn't he remember?! He was sober when he left Wilson's apartment. He would have been sober with Cuddy. He would have remembered. His head was spinning like crazy!

In the corner of his eye he saw Foreman and Chase talking heatedly about something or other. Their faces were serious, Foreman's almost set in stone, while Chases was less urgent, but more worried in a subdued compact way.

House narrowed his eyes and slowed to watch them, but tore his eyes away to continue to Cuddy's office, holding his breath the whole way.

XXXXX

A/N: I have a lot of plot-lines to set up. I love the beginnings of stories. So many ideas, so many possibilities! This isn't even the start of the start! **Should the next chapter follow House into Cuddy's office first, or dive into Foreman and Chase's conversation?** Both will happen, just vote if you want for which you'd rather see sooner, because it will be too much to write right now. And it won't matter for me because I'm not planning on writing this in chronological order. Upcoming chapters will have more plot to them :) Let me know if I should continue though, because I have a lot of other stories still in progress.


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